once i saw a bee drown in honey (and i understood)
by Sorry I Just Did
Summary: He tells her magic is a sense stitched into the walls of a practitioner's veins, connected intimately to the channels of the body. It flows and ebbs quietly like blood but poignant like electricity, gently guiding the body through the motions back to its natural equilibrium- much like the body raising its temperature to dispel a fever.
1. Prologue: The Crucible

**disclaimer: I don't own anything.**

* * *

"Did you see the strange boy in the marketplace today?"

"He bought rotten onions and cow innards and the strangest selection of herbs."

"Who would need such awful things?"

"I heard last month, he asked for teeth."

"What kind of hobbies does this boy have?"

"Leave the poor boy alone, I heard he doesn't have a family."

"It's better to leave the strange to their own devices, no need to disturb them. I don't want that strangeness near my family."

"Just give him what he asks for and he won't bother anyone."

* * *

The first time he sees the sun girl, she's in the marketplace and so is he but only one of them is happy to be there. She's clutching a man's hand (probably her father) and her smile is almost enough to make the marketplace seem cheery.

Almost.

But even her smile can't blind him to the whispers that follow at his heels. The rumors and the unease that he seems to instill within the people.

He tries not to come to this marketplace often, he travels between marketplaces all over the country and only stops at this particular one if his mother needs something urgently. In this marketplace, there is a particular brand of hatred and prejudice that seasons the air like the way the smell of basil always lingers in his home. It's just there. It's part of its essence.

He watches the girl mingle amicably with the locals and watches in wonderment as their usually pinched expressions light up like fireflies at her smile. He briefly wonders if this girl is a fire, spreading her light everywhere she touches.

He could never get the locals to smile at him.

He stopped trying years ago.

Now he just turns his head away from the bright girl and holds his hand out to the vender. The haggish old woman just turns her crooked nose as she hands him the putrid bag of frog tongues. She doesn't say a word, just accepts his money but he can see the words sweating from her slimy skin, _get out of here_.

He's leaving the village within minutes.

He's met a couple of kind locals during his visits to secure a cart for his travels. He's grateful for the kindness of Sir Kane because otherwise he'd have to ask the other locals for a ride and that would be extremely unwelcomed. He didn't want to cause anymore unease than unnecessary. He didn't want the locals to look too closely at him. He already aroused much suspicion with his strange shopping lists but their fear kept them from prodding too deeply. Asking for favors would enable a system of social courtesies that could unravel his entire life.

He dropped his purchases into his cart, hoisted the bars of the cart onto his shoulders and began his trek back home, never looking back.

Never seeing the sun girl's eyes on his back.

* * *

The next time he sees the sun girl, he's watching her from the crack in the closet. His mother had shoved him inside when her furious knocking woke the entire house.

He watched as the sun girl fell into his house. She grabbed his mother's hands and pleaded.

He watched as her mother called for Octavia and she appeared. Octavia dutifully gathered all of the items dropping from their mother's mouth with a mechanical precision after years of apprenticeship.

He watched as the sun girl led his mother and Octavia out of the house.

He watched as the light faded from the house, the walls deflated and the air chilled.

He watched as the house transformed into something torn apart by a storm, something ravaged and empty and haunted by the tragic lives of people past.

He heard the thundering of horses outside the house and dropped the broom before shooting into the closet.

He watched as his mother and Octavia swelled back into the house. Once he was sure that it was just them, he stepped out of the closet and resumed his sweeping. He kept sweeping as Octavia and his mother argued.

"We could have saved him! Why didn't we?" Octavia cried.

Their mother shook her head, "Sometimes we do things we don't want to."

Octavia glared at their mother something fierce, "What's that supposed to mean? I thought we were supposed to fix broken things! Why didn't we fix him?"

"It wasn't our place."

"It's not our place to mess with the natural order of things but yet here we are, witches!"

"Octavia Blake, let it be." Their mother's words were final. Bellamy glanced at his sister, her face looked like a frozen waterfall—something chaotic about to burst, and then at his mother, her face looked like a void and he suddenly couldn't breathe, like her void stole the air from his lungs. He tore his gaze away from his mother as Octavia shrieked before storming to her room.

His mother sighed, "Go take care of your sister." An order.

He nodded, "Always." A promise.

* * *

 _Mother, why can't I go with you and Octavia?_

They must never know that you are mine.

 _Why?_

Sons of witches are deeply feared.

 _Why, mother? I'm not a bad person._

No you are not, my warrior. But you have the power to be someone powerful, and that terrifies them.

 _I don't feel very powerful. You never even let me help with your magic._

There are more ways to be powerful than to use magic, my son.

 _How?_

Go out in the world, my son. Go into the world in my place. Bring me what I need but never let them know who you are. If they know, they will try to hurt you, to hurt us. Protect us by staying in the shadows. Be strong and never let them hurt you. By doing so, you will protect us and you will become very strong. Promise me, you will protect us.

 _I will mother._

Good child, promise me you will watch Octavia. She is young and a witch, she will face the things I face today. Make sure no harm ever comes to her.

 _Yes mother._

You are a good son, you will be wonderful.

 _I'll protect you._

* * *

Aurora Blake bites her lip as she feels the earth tremble. She can feel them coming, can feel the unease of their horses, can feel the anger of their blood, can feel the fear in their hearts.

She puts the last of her bottles in the cellar and makes her way upstairs. She's washing the dishes when they tear down her door. She's glad she sent Octavia away with Bellamy to get her herbs.

She's humming when their hateful hands grab at her. She's crying when their hateful hands bind her wrists. She's at peace when their hateful hands drag her by her hair across her yard. She supposes she could escape, she has more magic in her pinkie than these mortals have in their fingernails yet, she knows that this is inevitable.

Witches are always hunted. Witches are always burned.

Even if they are reluctantly accepted for a while, eventually a baby will die or a cow will be born with two heads and it will be taken as an omen and they will come for her. Their fear will always prevail.

From the moment her powers awakened within her, her life had been a wave of momentum barreling her to this moment. Everything that happened to her during the hurricane- her strength, her pain, her home, her children—was another tidal wave towards her destiny. She lied to herself for a while, when her children were born, that she was the master of her own actions but she knows now, as the dirt burns her throat that she was simply gliding towards her fate, foolishly believing this could have ended any other way.

She understands now that the world is cruel and her fate dragged her here, to where she is being dragged to her fate.

She's immensely grateful that Octavia is not here. They would burn her, too. Aurora Blake can accept the bitter truth, can swallow the bitter truth with a calm soul knowing that her daughter is safe.

Aurora Blake closes her eyes and lets the world fade away.

 _"Mother!"_

The world violently snaps back into focus and everything is screaming, her blood, her heart, her. She's shrieking because Octavia can't be here- the men will take her away, will violate her, torture her and she can already feel their intentions shift from her to Octavia (it's poison in the air and she's suffocating). She feels the magic vibrate in her veins, she fights against her binds long after her wrists burn and bleed. She tries to tell Octavia to run but the fear is cotton in her throat and she can't do anything but scream.

She hears their feet shuffle towards her baby, can practically see their deformed figures crawling towards her precious child.

Don't take Octavia, _don't hurt my child, someone protect her daughter._

And like an angel, Bellamy breaks through the forest and sprints towards his sister. She wants to laugh and smile and hold her children one last time. She wants to vomit, she wants to scream, she wants to pull out the insides of every man holding her, every man advancing towards her daughter. She wants to rise up like the tide and shield her children from everything but she sees Bellamy and she prays he'll reach Octavia in time. She trusts her son. She raised him with everything she had to offer. She has to believe that he'll protect Octavia, that he'll stop them from hurting her.

Something crashes against her skull.

She watches as screams rip from Bellamy's throat. She thinks this must be what his soul sounds like—desperate and scared and furious but her son.

There's a blinding pain shooting down her spine.

She watches as Bellamy reaches for his sister, who stands screaming like a messenger at the end of the world, ready to yank her into the safe sanctuary of his arms.

Her body feels like it's on fire (not yet) and her head is drowning (she's still dry) and her vision is foggy (it's bright outside) and her heart feels like it's falling (she's falling).

She trusts Bellamy. He'll protect Octavia.

She watches no more.

* * *

 _Ding dong the witch is dead._

* * *

He trips. He falls. He fails.


	2. Chapter 1: broken things

**a/n:** chapter title from . . . oh i think it's mine. oh would you look at that. it is. i should really know what's mine and what isn't.

i shouldn't be posting but I am because I'm trash who hasn't finished writing this story yet.  
also I felt guilty because that prologue wasn't much.  
so this is going to be a double update lolz.  
comments give me life.  
enjoy.

also, apparently i never posted these two chapters here, so. here you go.

i'll upload the third chapter . . . eventually. if you really wanna read it, it's up on my ao3.

* * *

"Incoming!" A guttural voice roars just moments before a gargantuan cart hurtles through, giving Bellamy only a hair of a second to jump out of the way. He lands rather ungracefully on top of sacks of wheat and flour and groans as the world tilts on its side.

Before his world can straighten itself out, the haggard baker storms out of the bakery, baring his broken, yellowed and pointed teeth at Bellamy, "Get your damned ass out of my product!" Bellamy can barely focus on the wicked curl on the baker's mouth but he scowls and rises from the flour.

Bellamy really hates the marketplace.

In all of his ten years of coming to this particular rat-shit of a marketplace, it's only gotten bigger and busier and more boisterous and all the more detestable. Bellamy swears that the larger the marketplace grows, the more the residents resemble the slaughtered cows for sale—all gutted and revolting and rancid.

He finishes off his errands, barely restraining himself from snapping back at the caustic vegetables vendor with the beady, snake-like eyes. He stalks out of the marketplace, clenching his teeth as their whispers dig into his back like starved teeth, like burning claws trying to take pieces of him like they dragged his mother and sister away.

When he's fully encased within the woods, he can breathe freely again.

* * *

It's raining and that probably should have been his first clue. It's thundering and the lightning scorches the sky. He's running but the rain keeps crawling into his throat, his nose, his eyes and he can't breathe, he can't see. His body feels inexperienced, unused and terribly unsuited for running this fast (it feels young and naïve). It's like he's a stranger in his own body, everything feels foreign and wrong.

But then he sees Octavia and he feels sort of right again.

He's reaching for her, her name is ripping from his throat. The lightening bends around her figure like a deadly omen, like she's something too fierce, too sacred for even lightning to burn.

 _That's his little sister._

He sees his mother next and the world feels so very wrong. Some man has wrapped his gnarled hands around her beautiful hair, some man has his bloodshot eyes trained on her beautiful face, some man is touching her and he wants to break the man's bones.

 _That's his mother_.

He hears her shrieks and he thinks that the lightning must have hit him because he feels electrified, paralyzed with fear but somehow he keeps running.

He feels his feet slapping against the muddy ground, he can feel his feet losing traction against the slippery ground. He can feel his heart slip with the look on his mother's face.

 _Protect Octavia._

He smells the wood and the bloodlust pouring from the men. They're going to burn his mother and he has to save her. But he can see the pleas in her eyes, begging him to save Octavia first.

His mind is a battlefield and the clamors of his doubt resonate within his chest like the growls of the men resonate in his heart. It's loud and it's bloody and every scenario he can imagine, he's losing either a sister or a mother or both and they're his everything.

He keeps running but he can never reach Octavia and all he can register is his mother's screams and his duty to protect Octavia.

Octavia turns towards him, her eyes are hollow.

" _What's going on, Bell?_ " And then she's consumed by the fear of the men. She's engulfed in their bloodlust, their ignorance. Her pretty face is darkened and twisted as they pull her apart. They're surrounding her like hungry demons, their mouths biting and sucking and draining her of everything pure and righteous about her.

The thunder is thundering, deafening.

 _Boom. Boom. Boom._

He tastes the regret, the hatred, the despair burning a hole in his heart.

 _Boom. Boom. Boom._

His mother is still screaming. His sister is wilting. He is running.

 _Boom. Boom. Boom._

They're cackling, they're grunting, they're animals tearing his kingdom to the ground.

 _Boom. Boom. Boom._

* * *

 _Knock. Knock. Knock._

"Please, is anyone there? I need help!"

Bellamy startles awake shooting up, chest heaving. He's in his bed at the cabin, the moonlight pours through the windows and all he can hear is the frantic pounding on the front door. It's loud and disorienting and he can't breathe with all of the pounding. He stumbles out of bed towards the door, tripping over pots and books on his way.

He yanks the door open and comes face-to-face with a girl with glowing hair (she looks like a girl made of sunlight, an ephemeral image of a girl from a different time).

"What the hell do you want?" He growls. No one has visited the cabin since that day- at least, not for the magical reasons people usually came. Now if anyone were to stumble upon his property, it was mostly by mistake and they were promptly chased off of his land by a very perturbed Bellamy.

(And it's not that he wouldn't help someone who needs magical assistance, it's just that for all of his years watching his mother practice it, he never produced a drop; also, magic itself is his mother and Octavia and he can't even think about it without feeling the holes in his chest, the wounds that never really closed.)

He belatedly realizes her hair isn't actually glowing, that it's just the moonlight dancing off of her blonde hair and that her eyes are puffy and rimmed with red. Her back is ramrod straight and her shoulders are squared; her fist is frozen in the air, ready to knock again and her knuckles are torn open. Her mouth is hanging open, like a scream was trying to escape. She looks like something is trying to escape from inside her and he thinks she looks like a disaster.

Her eyes narrow and he swallows at the determined fire he sees there.

"My mother killed my father and I think you have the answers to my questions."

A pregnant pause.

"And you are?" He finally drawls sleepily, the words falling from his mouth like molasses—thick and viscous and heavy.

She bobs her head like she's surprised he even answered her at all and didn't slam the door in her face (it's still not out of the question) and then steels her gaze into a molten sea that threatens to drown him

"Clarke Griffin and you're the witch's son. I believe we have some things to discuss."


	3. Chapter 2: opposing forces

**a/n:** i said i was going to upload this a week ago. here we are. one week later. whoops.

i have the next two chapters written up but i'm not going to update until i'm three chapters ahead of myself. so hopefully, i finish chapter six soon. but ya know, i'm starting college on sunday so i might just die instead. who knows. not me.

i will finish this i swear dammit.

* * *

Clarke Griffin was a fucking hurricane of a girl and Bellamy refused to admit he had whiplash.

He had a fucking headache, that he'll admit.

Right now there's a natural disaster sitting in his kitchen/living room/ bedroom disguised as a girl calmly explaining her grand conspiracy theory about megalomaniacal mothers, victimized fathers, reluctant witches and—

"Wait a minute," Bellamy blurts, holding his hands up as if that could stop the girl in front of him, "my mother would _never_ have done what you're accusing her of. Just because she was a _witch_ doesn't mean she was morally compromised," he spits out the sentence like it was dying to escape him (it was.)

Her eyebrow furrowed even deeper than he thought was humanely possible (voices of a young boy and an even younger girl floats through his mind; echoes of _your face will get stuck like that; shut up, Bell, at least I don't have a face like yours_ ) and she carefully says, "I'm not here to question your mother's morals, I'm here to find out why she did what she did."

Bellamy feels the resentment in him tide over slightly but not completely, "I don't hear a difference."

She exhaled deeply, "There is if your mother did what she did because of someone else's morals. I'm here because I think my mother forced your mother to let my father die and I want to know _how_. What did my mother say to convince a witch to not do her job? My father did not deserve to die, everyone could see that. So what was so powerful that your mother agreed he had to die?"

By the end of her monologue, she seemed empty, hollow and less like a hurricane and more like a wrecked shoreline. She seemed ready to float away at the slightest stimulus. She looked shattered.

Part of Bellamy—the part that had no reason to exist for the past five years without them— roared to gather her up in his arms and comfort her pains away but the other part of Bellamy still roared with indignation at the mere suggestion that his mother would choose to let someone die at the behest of a power play.

In the end, neither side won, " I don't know what type of tea you've been drinking, sweetheart, but you seem to be under the impression that I don't think all of this is bullcrap. I'm sorry you lost your father but no one killed him- he died because he couldn't be saved," He said with a finality that was meant to drive a nail into this particular closet of skeletons (his own bones were twisting with the memories of his mother).

Her calm demeanor cracked a little with a frustrated growl that leaped out of her throat as she leapt out of her seat, "I don't know what tea you've been drinking but my father could have been saved and he wasn't. I have all of the proof right here," she drops a burlap bag onto the table with a thud, "and you're going to help me find out why my mother killed my father whether you like it or not," she ground out.

He leaned forward across the tables, placing most of his weight on his elbows, "And pray tell me, why on earth would I do that?" He snarled.

She fell back down into her chair and crossed her arms petulantly, "Because I know where they're keeping Octavia."

 _Octavia._

* * *

 **a/n:** this was short. standard chapter lengths are for losers. reviews give me air to breathe. also, i'd suggest checking out my AO3 account (link in my profile) because i'm mainly on there and as you can see, updates on here are very sporadic. i will do better for you. but also, i tend to suck so. just love me and my fic, ok? ok.


	4. Chapter 4: imprints

They agreed to leave at dawn.

They move silently through the cabin. Their movements cast whispy shadows in the faded lamplight, the air ripples as their movements disturb the stillness. Bellamy doesn't light more candles in favor of hiding under the dim light's embrace. He doesn't want to face the sun girl in his cabin, not right now.

He feels like the earth beneath his feet has been turned upside down, like he's been doused in ice cold water that sticks to his skin. His mind is shuddering with the possibilities of Octavia, with the memories of his failure to protect her. That pain still lives in his bones intimately, still makes his teeth ache on rainy days. He feels like he's been beaten raw—he feels too vulnerable to be near the sun.

So he inhales and moves quietly, praying to disappear in the dim light of dawn.

It's hard to ignore the sun girl moving behind him—shuffling through her things, muttering about maps and supplies—but he does his best. He busies himself with trailing his fingers over the old, sturdy wood of his bow. It has ages carved into the arch but it still feels right, still feels strong in his hands.

He had carved the bow a few months after the end of his world. The world still seemed to be blustering red and loud, screaming and violent and he had dragged the knife down the wood with the vigor of a boy living in a world of ruin. The bow had his anger, his fear, his sorrow running through its grains but it also had his growth. He still remembers the first time he ate the meat of an animal he had killed with the bow. The feel of the meat rubbing against his teeth as he chewed—he had killed it himself. This is what he was capable of, this is how he could live. He had carved the bow angry, but it was the bow that taught him how to stand on his feet when he doubted himself.

He slings the bow over his shoulder. He runs his fingers over the fletches of the arrows and packs them into the quiver. It feels like wearing his favorite shirt, comfortable and familiar.

"Ready?"

Her voice slices through the silence like lightning and he feels it light a fire in his heart. He's faced with the sudden confession that he's inexplicably scared, to fail. But then he remembers his sister, his love for her fills him up like blood and he knows he'd face anything to get her back.

He turns his head to look over at Clarke from above his shoulder, "Yeah, you?"

She's barely illuminated by the soft candlelight, but it seems to stick to her hair and her eyes, caught in their brilliance.  
He thinks she's awfully bright for someone so sharp.

She nods, "I came prepared."

He huffs out a laugh, making his way towards her where she stands near his table, "Oh, did you now? And what if I had said no?"

She lets out a wry smile, "You wouldn't have. You'd do anything to save your sister."

He feels the ephemeral lightness leave his body, "And what makes you so sure about that?"

He didn't think it was possible but her eyes seem to burn brighter, "It's written on your skin."

He can't argue with that. He's familiar with pain, and longing, and ever since the night his mother burned, he could never shake their grasp, always a whisper straining against everything he does. He supposes it makes sense that it's as visible to other as it is to him, no matter how hard he tries to ignore it. He thinks that after all of these years, he should be bitter, or anxious, to rid himself of these feelings, to move on from what is now his past but- the fact that it feels like a burning knife to even think of them as _his past_ speaks for itself.

He supposes he isn't letting go anytime soon. Not of magic, not of his mother, not of Octavia. They are branded on his heart like scars.

He grunts in affirmation and instead, says, "Then we got everything we need. Let's go."

They leave.


	5. Chapter 5: lessons

**a/n:** as always chapter title in profile

did i ever say why i stopped updating? i mean part of the reason was life but most of it was that i use a writing software to write this because it stimulates me writing spidey senses so the files saved in a different place and when i got my new laptop i forgot to bring over the files because they weren't in the same place as everything else and hen my dad wiped my laptop and i lost all the stuff i had. which was like eight chapters. now i just finished writing chapter six. so yeah. i got set back a bit.

good thing tho is that it gave me an oppurtunity to more fully develop the plot so i have more of an idea where this is going to go so that's a yay. and i want to write so that's another yay. i just need to find the time and inspiration to write the words i want to write because i just started college so everything emotional is sort of dead inside. so whoops? we shall see.

enjoy this chapter. things actually happen. not really. just fluff.

* * *

When Bellamy was little, before Octavia, before hiding, his mother used to tell him stories.

They were magical stories. They fell from his mother's mouth like waterfalls and he gladly jumped in after them. He would crash into new worlds, his breath caught in his throat as he opened his eyes and took in the new lands around him. His mind would swim away from him, away from the world that whispered and glared behind his mother's back, and he would feel light in his bones.

They were silly stories, with the bare bones of magic interwoven in that natural way that all natural principles seem to lay hidden in all children's stories- obvious but subtle at the same time, little presents for children to understand slowly as the stories followed them into adulthood. Plants were to be listened to, not spoken to. But if you asked the trees a question, you might get an answer. Respect the forests for they are older and wiser than you. Water can cure everything but only the things that need to be cured. Potions can be made from anything but be careful to put the right amount of ingredients. Patience, respect, wisdom, moderation.

There is magic in everything, and it is only the magician who understands how to understand the language. Like language, magic can be learned and understood but it cannot be _felt_. To feel magic is to know another world, another home.

He swallowed these stories and they burned themselves into his memories like trauma. They folded themselves into his perspective, weighed into his view of the world.

When Octavia was born, he broke the surface and reality came into focus, rushed into lungs and blinded his vision.

His mother no longer told him stories because now he was a stranger in his own home. He had a responsibility to his mother and more importantly, to his sister and it did not involve magical stories.

He went out into the real world while Octavia swam in the magical one. He kept the real world outside of their home and hid from their world. He no longer knew the magic of magic. Instead, he learned what _others_ thought of magic, what the people outside of his home thought of the miracles his mother performed. Of the darkness inside people who sought out his mother. And his world turned a little harder, a little blacker, a little narrower.

But he also learned Octavia.

He learned his sister inside and out, told her stories he learned from people outside, of gods and warriors and heroes and matryrs. He taught her reading and writing and what to eat and what not to. He learned what made her laugh and what made her smile. He taught her how to get up when she fell. He learned what made her cry.

He was there for her in a real sense that his mother could not afford to be. She was a witch and it was her duty to teach her daughter magic, not how to live with herself. Their mother had a pile of wood at her feet and it was only a matter of time before they tied her hands back and set her aflame. It was her fate. So she taught what she could and prayed that Bellamy could handle the rest.

"Why doesn't Bell do magic with us?" Octavia had asked once.

"Because it is not his job to do so," Aurora replied calmly.

Octavia pouted and Bellamy pretended he wasn't listened, "And why not?"

Aurora turned to her daughter, "It is not his job," she repeated and her tone nailed Octavia's mouth shut.

His job, right, well, he failed spectacularly at his job. He let his mother burn and his sister get taken away. His world became immensely bigger that night but also immensely smaller. It opened up and let the rain, the flames, the sun, the wind, everything in but all he felt was the aching. He saw more colors in his world but it seemed all the same to him.

It looked like stone.

...

Clarke has been eyeing his bow for hours now, her blue eyes grazing the surface before quickly darting away. He can feel the curiosity leaking out of her eyes and he wants to say it makes him annoyed but mostly he's just tired of pretending he can't see the questions pushing against her mouth.

"What?" He asks rather sharply.

Clarke blinks at his tone, "What?"

He scowls, "Why do you keep looking at my bow?"

Clarke's lips form a small 'o' before she closes her mouth and turns her head to the side, flushed, "Oh, um, it's just that I haven't really seen one before. I didn't know anyone who knew archery." Bellamy figured. Swordsplay was in fashion now, and while archery was still used in military combat, Bellamy rarely saw common folk wielding a bow and arrow anymore.

Honestly, Bellamy didn't know what to say in response other than _well, yeah_ but that'd probably be unnecessary so he settled for an affirmative grunt. That's a safe choice.

Clarke gnawed on her lip for a moment, the silence stretching uncomfortably around them before she broke it, "Do you think you could teach me?"

Bellamy stopped in his tracks, looking at her incredulously, "What?"

Clarke stopped and he had never seen the sun girl look so nervous. Ever since he met her, she was always confident and sure of her words but as she stood fidgeting before him, he wondered why this of all things was making her nervous.

"I mean, it'd be good tactically, you know? That way both of us could provide long range cover if we needed to," Clarke explained, almost to convince herself. Bellamy considered her words, they made sense- he also noted that she spoke like the military men who would sometimes roll rambunctiously through the villages and it made him uncomfortable- but was this the time and place? Granted, this might be the only time they ever spend together (and the small twinge that turned in his chest when he realized that was adamantly ignored) but he needed to find Octavia as fast as possible. He couldn't waste anytime.

As if sensing his reluctance, Clarke hurried to say, brushing a piece of her golden hair behind her ear, "You can teach me as we go. Some game here and there as we walk. I know we have to move with utmost urgency and I don't want to slow us down but I think it's really important that I learn." She had grown more confident as she spoke, her shoulders squaring and her back straightening. By the end, she was looking him in the eye and with the way her sea blue eyes challenged him to argue, Bellamy figured he stood little chance against the sun girl. Her moment of vulnerability was over.

(It's not like he was ever going to refuse her anyway.)

He sighed, "Fine, alright. But if we slow down, we're stopping the lessons and moving on." Clarke looked momentarily suprised before slipping into a small smile. She nodded serenely and breezed past him, their arms brushing slightly and their eyes slipping past each other. The moment passed like water and he swallowed. He watched her figure glide forward, hazy, for a moment before shaking his head and striding after her.

...

Her first lesson wasn't until dusk that day, when the sun was kissing the horizon and the sky was flushed pink, clouds swelled and dappled rosy. He had taken her with him to go search for that night's dinner. He motioned for her to watch her steps and tread silently through the forest as they searched. She nodded and followed his lead.

They navigated through the wooded land quietly, side by side, searching for game. Sometimes, Bellamy would forget that Clarke was even there, a combination of her silent steps and his unwavering focus on the task at hand. His eyes scanned the forest, searching for any signs of life. At times, he become distantly aware of her presence when she let out a tense breath or her body heat wandered too close to his.

Needless to say, he felt disoriened, pulled in and out of his element like a tide on the full moon, dragged.

Nevertheless, they spotted a deer grazing quietly in a pasture in front of them and Bellamy's focus sharpened. Bellamy paused in his steps, his silent glide through the forest coming to a subtle stop, as if he was never moving in the first place. He held his hands out behind to steady Clarke as she came to a stop behind him. He glanced at her over his shoulder and when her eyes switched to his, she set her jaw and nodded once. He stepped around her, settling slightly behind her, sliding his bow off of his shoulder and into her hands in a fluid motion, his eyes never leaving the deer.

She quietly raised the bow and he leaned closer to fix her posture, stumbling into her space and promptly, getting swallowed, head first. He placed his hands on top her arms, fixing her hands, the forest hushed except for the deer padding leisurely through the pasture (his mind, loud and torturously quiet at the same time). His fingers marveled at the smoothness of her hands, fingers deftly dipping in between hers to adjust her thumb so it wouldn't get caught in the fire. He could feel each breath build in his body as he brought his hands down her arms, pulling her elbow out, pushing her aim towards the deer; his eyes traced her silohuette as he pressed her shoulders taut, noting the curve of her back against the scenery of the forest. He was aware of everything, about her. The air was damp and humid as evening fell across the land like a thick shawl, but he felt warm and his blood was singing and he was-

completely unsteady, disoriented.

He meagerly tapped her shoulder when he thought she was ready; with a small breath, she released the arrow. The shuddering of the freshly fired string harmonized with the shuddering breath he released, stepping away from Clarke like an arrow being released from a bow.

He breathed and the deer's head shot up, swiveling to stare straight at him.

The arrow missed.

It buried itself at the heels of the deer, which promptly scampered into the breast of the woods.

Clarke's posture sagged, "Damn it," she breathed, wrecked, staring resolutely at the empty pasture in front of her.

...

Dinner was berries and edible bark that night.

"Oh my god, where did you find these berries? They're delicious, so sweet!" Clarke exclaimed, happily munching on a handful of berries, juice dribbling from the cusp of her mouth along the swell of her chin.

"I don't know, I found a bush of them a little ways down that way," He gestured vaguely in the direction that he had found the berries before motioning to his own chin. Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped into a 'o' comically, a red blush spreading across her face that rivaled the red of the berries before she hastily wiped her chin clean. He fought the urge to smile fondly.

He sighed. He still felt dangerously aware of her even after the hour that had passed since their failed attempt to get meat. He still felt like she was image stuck to his skin, every move documented into his muscle memory.

Maybe it was the fact that he had been alone for so long, distanced himself from people. Separated by barriers of mistrust and courtesy. Shrouded by mystery and notoriety. Maybe it was because it had been a while since he really spent time with another person. Maybe it was because he wasn't used to people seeing him without pretense, rather a person whose goal alligned with hers. Maybe it was because she could understand what drove him when countless others couldn't.

Maybe it was because this was the first time in a long while that he felt like he was alive, heading towards Octavia. Maybe it was because this was the first time in a long while that he felt like his world was more than stationary background characters and white noise. Maybe it was because she was more than a figure blurred in his horizon because instead, she was at the helm.

Regardless, he was aware of her every movement.

He wasn't keen about this new developement. It made him restless, buzzing, like a barely contained fire. Half of him wanted to put space between them, barriers, but the other half needed to know everything. To get a handle on the situation and use it to help him find Octavia.

Octavia.

This was all for Octavia. Thena he and Clarke would be on separate paths, their momentary entanglement a mossy rock in the ground behind them.

"Something the matter?" Her voice tethered him back to reality. Octavia.

He pursed his lips, "Just thinking." When she looked at him expectantly, he continued, "These berries usually don't grow around here, and not in this season, even. Was wondering how they grew there. It would be helpful information to have."

She shrugged, "Must be our lucky day."

* * *

 **a/n:** wow did that actually resemble a chapter? shocker.

as always, i do love comments and feedback and they make my day. as do all your kudos and bookmarks. they ake my little dead heart feel alive.

i love y'all for reading.


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